The Heir of Ages Past
by urza-386
Summary: A young elf must learn why he is different from the others, and discovers that he may be the key to an ancient prophecy... (Prologue has just been updated) Please R&R.
1. Prologue

Prologue  
  
Thane cast his weary eyes over the battlefield. So many dead, so many flames that had been snuffed in these last days. Days filled with monsters, magic, and massacre. The days seemed to last lifetimes. But the nights, the nights were far worse. Skirmishes raged on throughout the night; sometimes only the gleam of Verik's Moon on armor and blade could be seen in the murky blackness. For six long days the battle had continued to ravage both forces. Thane began to walk the battleground, looking for any surviving enemy troops to interrogate or finish off. He was starting to feel the effects of so few hours of sleep over a six-day period of constant fighting. Trying to focus on the present, he drew his attention towards his comrades-in-arms.  
  
Dear free-spirited Sheleigh. The boisterous halfling had traveled with him mere days after his departure from Fevoreen. He was always there to provide some good cheer when times were darkest. Now he lay huddled next to a battered barricade, covered in blood. His eyes were now bloodshot from lack of sleep. His brown hair was tussled, matted, and in places soaked with blood, giving it a black and red hue. Skilled hands that once plucked the strings of a lute and played the keys of reedpipes now involuntarily grasped a short sword with such intense fervor he could have died on the spot and a fortnight later the metal would remain thus clutched.  
  
Alexandria and Steven. The wielders of the magic arts were all but enemies when first they met. Alexandria had come from a line of renowned mages, and full of promise. Her long auburn hair and striking green eyes projected a beauty that disguised quite well her determination, logic, and no-nonsense attitude. Now she sits on the damp earth, tears in her eyes, resting her head on Steven's shoulder. When they had met, Steven had nearly begged to join Thane's company. Then, his silver eyes had been full of excitement, eager to prove his worth. Sitting next to Alexandria, they were full of pain. He combed through his light brown hair with his left arm, bloody from the sting of an Orcish blade. Where previously the sorcerer's robes had been bright, now they hung loosely around his shoulders, tarnished with neglect. Looking at Alexandria, he wrapped his bloodied arm around her, desperately trying to soothe her.  
  
Stubborn, obstinate Sarindra. In Gaeth it was rare to see a dwarf venture away from their mountains for more than commerce or warfare. To any person not familiar with the Dwarven histories of Gaeth, she was nothing more than an exception to the rule, but to a dwarf, Sarindra was more than an anomaly. For almost all Dwarven history, Balderks, both male and female, had been hearty warriors. They defended their kingdom, and had no desire or need to leave the mountainsides they knew. But Sarindra had deviated from her clan, choosing to pursue service to the Dwarven deity Moradin, and sought enlightenment and adventure. When the battle had started, she was in the front ranks, her red hair flowing in the wind and brandishing her warhammer with the battle fury known only to the Dwarves. Six days later, her blood-soaked weapon was slung upon her belt. Now she paced around the battlefield, calling to Moradin to aid her in healing the countless wounded that littered the ground.  
  
Then there was Quirion. Thane had learned so much from the elven ranger during their travels together, yet he knew so little about the mysterious maverick. Presently, the elf stood atop a stone outcropping, his studded leather armor blackened with blood and magic, his short brown hair fluttering in the wind. Ehlonna's champion gazed across this once beautiful plain, surveying the devastation. Thane tried to read his thoughts, but the loner's soul windows provided no inkling of whatever occupied his secretive mind. The company was quite a distance from Kivarc, and for a moment he pondered why Quirion had continued with them even after they had left the forest.  
  
Lothæsorun returned his attention to the apparent victory that surrounded him. He had prayed to Heironeous before this battle, asking for victory. This was no victory. Hundreds of humans, elves, dwarves, goblins, orcs, drow, and duerger now added unwanted flavor to this once sweet earth. How many lives had been saved through this bloodshed? He could only hope as he ran his blood-stained hand through his bronze hair. Yet the valiant warrior knew that it would be all for naught if Darsen was not stopped. The sky overhead was darkening once more. Lothæsorun turned and began walking toward his friends to discuss the matter of shelter for the night when the cry of a hawk toward a small mounted figure on the horizon. Reflexively, he tightened his grip on his sword.  
  
"Your day will come," Lothæsorun muttered under his breath. "Your day will come." 


	2. Chapter I: A Beginning

A Beginning  
  
There is an ancient song on Gaeth, which, translated to the common tongue, reads,  
  
In the past lies a radiant flower,  
Amidst conflict and war,  
Ancient legend and lore;  
Known only as the Ultimate Power;  
A power coveted and feared by all.  
  
Its wielder has control absolute,  
Like the gods on high,  
Who can never die;  
All people will bow and pay tribute;  
Attempts to own it fail; rise to fall.  
  
Elves in their secluded forests of green,  
Guardians of nature,  
Smooth and soft of feature;  
Their grip on the past unerringly keen;  
But if action needed they do not stall.  
  
In battle they claim to be without peer,  
Masters of the bow,  
Swordplay more than mere show;  
Against Orcs and Drow they do not show fear;  
Gaeth pained, they heed the clarion call.  
  
Vast are their cities of metal and stone,  
Dwarven things made to last,  
Traditions of ages past;  
Mountains grand, warm, and deep do they call home;  
Treasure uncounted dot the ancient halls.  
  
In majestic forges they make their trade,  
Sword, armor, axe and spear,  
Hammer and anvil held dear;  
For smithing, lore, and battle were Dwarves made;  
To guard the ancient past, they heed the call.  
  
Manifestations of greed and hatred,  
Muscular and savage,  
Orcish delight to ravage;  
For destruction and battle were they bred;  
No prisoners have ever adorned their walls.  
  
Sword, spear, axe, and club with fury they wield,  
Made to deal the utmost pain,  
To kill, annihilate, and maim;  
When the smoke clears, bodies litter the field;  
For Gorthak, their god, they will heed the call.  
  
Humans claim that they are superior,  
Seizing every last moment,  
Far are they from adherent;  
They deny that no race is inferior;  
Their arrogance holds others in a thrall.  
  
Warriors of both the light and the dark,  
Champions revered and true,  
Villains by many pursued;  
Throughout history Humans left their mark;  
If they deem it worthy, they heed the call.  
  
Yet know this, creatures of Gaeth,  
Young and old,  
Both good and evil;  
Forget not my words of which ye sing;  
Lest damnation be the fate of all.  
  
For from a golden age great darkness shall grow,  
Gone will be the leaders of old,  
From the ashes heroes unfold;  
And Gaeth shall be torn asunder, laid low;  
Unless the few hear, and heed, destiny's call.  
  
Many races on Gaeth had forgotten the prophetic verse, and the majority of those that retained knowledge of its existence dismissed it as a silly beginning to an old story of days forgotten. But the Elves, who hold knowledge in high esteem, held the prophecy close to their hearts. Some believed that the prophecy had already come true during the Race Wars years before. Many, though, saw it as a foretelling of the future, of a time when the survival of the good people of Gaeth would depend on the actions of a few . . .  
  
- - - - -  
  
"Keep your guard up, Lothæsorun!" instructed the elder elf. "Keep it up, I said!"  
  
The two sparring elves danced around each other in the secluded glade. The sparring swords, wooden, yet remarkably light by the flourishes and graceful strokes, could have been mistaken for tarnished metal at first glance. The elder elf obviously seemed more skilled with a blade than his younger companion. Still, the youth's agility made cause for the elder to bob from side to side out of experienced habit. Despite his mentor's prodding, Lothæsorun seemed to be mentally distracted.  
  
"Auntæn!" ordered the elder elf as he lowered his wooden sword. "What's wrong with you today, Lothæsorun?"  
  
Lothæsorun relaxed his already loose stance and turned his attention toward his mentor, but was obviously looking through him.  
  
"I'm sorry, Taneisen, but I'm trying to interpret a dream I had during my meditation."  
  
"What kind of dream?" Taneisen asked, walking over toward his pupil.  
  
"It's weird," said Lothæsorun, recreating the dream in his head. "I saw a large, bronze-colored dragon, and a rather intelligent one, at that. I imagined it flying to the edge of a great forest, and change its form by means of a spell or something. After the green radiance dissipated, all I saw was the form of a tall, muscular elf."  
  
Even as Lothæsorun retold his peculiar vision, the sky darkened, casting an eerie twilight upon the glade. The green, luscious trees and plants seemed to converge on the inhabitants, prevented their escape or interruption.  
  
After a long silence, Taneisen spoke. "I cannot interpret your dream for you, Lothæsorun. If your mother were still with us she may have been able to shed some light on your vision. Alas, she was taken too soon from those who loved her.  
  
"Still, I suggest you worry about your dream some other time. Presently, you should fret more about your reflexes!" Before he finished the sentence, the old centurion lunged at his apprentice, forcing him to raise his guard and resume sparring.  
  
- - - - -  
  
At the white marble shrine of Corthidian Isthærian, Lothæsorun sat cross-legged in prayer. He seemed dead to the world. The breeze blowing through the trees stirred him not. Nor did the play of Elvish children or the philosophy of elders walking and sitting on benches catch his ear. Yet despite his apparent ignorance of his surroundings, he seemed almost to radiate an aura of peace while he prayed.  
  
"Grant me the strength and the wisdom," whispered the elven youth. Lothæsorun slowly opened his eyes, feeling the spirit of Corthidian Isthærian renew him. Gradually, with the unnatural grace of the Elves, he rose, looking over the city he loved.  
  
Elves by nature do not build elaborate cities in the woods they love. By tradition, they keep their groups small, and their buildings in the treetops, to appear and disappear when they choose.  
  
Foreen was the Elves' only exception. It was a metro-polis of greens, golds, and other earthly tones. Buildings of wood towered into the sky much like the trees that surrounded them. Elvish houses filled the trees, and stores both large and small, of crystal, wood, and all natural things dotted the landscape. Paths between buildings were faint, for all Elves are light of foot, even when bustling about. The ground was lush with grasses, and in patches the fallen leaves of yesteryear.  
  
"Good day, Lothæsorun!" hallooed a vibrant elf.  
  
"Good day, Raershen. How is the Wind and the River?" returned Lothæsorun. He had business to care for at home, but was obliged to see what his friend wanted.  
  
"He is gentle and She flows the same," answered his comrade. "Are you busy later this afternoon?"  
  
"No. Why, did you need to make a new bow?"  
  
"I already made a new one, the day before last. She shoots even farther than the last. Actually, I was hoping that you would be willing to spar with me later. The tournament is the next full moon and I want to keep training."  
  
"Sure, I can spar with you, Raershen," said Lothæsorun, "But I have some things to take care of at home first."  
  
"No problem," smiled Raershen cheerfully. "I'll be in the glade beyond the largest oak. I'll grab some spar-blades, but when should I expect you?"  
  
"An hour before sunset."  
  
"See you then," said Raershen as he turned to prepare for sparring.  
  
- - - - -  
  
Lothæsorun shut the door to his modest home. Like other dwellings of elves not joined eternally with a partner, it was small and simple in design. A bed of grasses lay in one corner, with a few grass blankets and a pillow of still-green leaves. A small wooden table was situated near the opposite wall. A firefly lantern and quill and ink rested at one end of the table, across from the lone chair. The table served as such for meals, reading, correspondence, or what ever use he had need of it. Lothæsorun had also put into place a back door, so he could relax on the great branches of his tree, or to secret himself away to visit Rilistivætha River.  
  
He sat down on his bed and looked at his hands. He knew what his hands looked like, but he wished . . . They were the slim, dexterous hands of all Elves, but Lothæsorun was different. He had known that he was different for the past 30 years. Like all Elves, Lothæsorun's 100th birthday was a day of celebration. Many Elves treasure their 100th year with little care for anything else in their lives, it serving as a landmark, but mere months after his 100th birthday, Lothæsorun began to notice some unsettling physical changes that were not common among Elves. His nails elongated, and became much harder, becoming more like the claws of a wild animal than a set of normal fingernails. They became sharp as daggers, and for fear of being separated from his peers, he cut his nails daily to a normal length. A few weeks later, he saw that his teeth were also becoming pointed and sharp. Lothæsorun grew very scared of what was happening to himself. He started to file his teeth down, and tried to act normal around others in his community, which was becoming increasingly more difficult. Days later, just when Lothæsorun couldn't think of anything else to separate him from Elven society, he woke up and went down to the Rilistivætha River to bathe; when he saw his reflection, he fell back in absolute terror. Trembling, he crawled to the edge of the river and looked again. They were! His eyes, once beautiful Elven green, now had a bronze colour, and a striking reptilian appearance. How could he hide his eyes? He had to think of something. What had caused this change? What had caused any of these recent changes? Magic? Magic! That's what he could say! And that is what he had said to those who asked. He said that a wandering mage had cast a permanent enchantment on his eyes to make him more ferocious looking. They did. So much so that they almost superseded his combat prowess in the community tournaments.  
  
And so Lothæsorun had lived these past 33 years. As normal an Elven life as he could manage, considering his unique circumstances. And it was, inasmuch as he cared, a life worth leading. He used to worry daily about his abnormalities being discovered, and the possible consequences therein. Now he rarely worried about their knowledge being known, for they had remained hidden from the community already these 33 years. Rather, he daydreamed and pondered what it meant. Maybe it was a sign from the Elven god Corthidian Isthærian that he had a great duty to perform, or that his abilities were needed for a greater purpose.  
  
Whatever the reason, he needed to focus on the present. He needed to trim his nails and get something to eat so that he could meet Raeshen in the glen for sparring. Lothæsorun looked outside his house, searching the heavens for the sun.  
  
"Three and a half hours," he whispered to himself.  
  
- - - - -  
  
"Hey, Solaris!" Raeshen hollered as Lothæsorun entered the glade. "I was worried that you weren't gonna show!"  
  
Raeshen smiled as his childhood friend strolled into the sparring circle. Raeshen was already standing in his starting position in the circle, hopping back and forth like a street brawler and twirling the two spar blades in his hand. As Lothæsorun stepped into his starting position, Raeshen threw the spar blade from his right hand to Lothæsorun, over two dozen feet away.  
  
"Come on, let's go! I wanna get some good practice in for the tournament," said Raeshen as he and Lothæsorun began to circle each other.  
  
"Raeshen," said Lothæsorun nonchalantly, "Let me ask you a question. Why do you care so much about the tournament? We have one every five years in Foreen, and I've won the last two. Haven't you even been just a little curious as to why I'm not participating this year?"  
  
"Nope," said Raeshen matter-of-factly as he parried Lothæsorun's blows and countered with some of his own. "I figured you knew that you're the best sword fighter in your bracket, and decided to let someone else have the glory this year."  
  
"No!" said Lothæsorun, blocking his partner's blows with the skill that he had demonstrated in the last two tournaments. "No, Raeshen. I'm not participating because the tournament serves no purpose!"  
  
Adding emphasis to his words, he went on the offensive, forcing Raeshen back. "The most the tournament provides is a series of sparring matches."  
  
Raeshen executed a turnover and resumed more aggressive maneuvers. "Like I said, glory."  
  
"You're missing the point!" yelled Lothæsorun with a return offensive. Agitated, he thrust past his friend's guard, hitting him in the gut and ending the match. Lowering his spar blade, he tried to explain his reasoning.  
  
"You have to earn glory. Giving the glory would mean intentionally throwing the last match, which I would never do. If I'm going to fight, I want it to be for a cause, not some community tournament. I don't know if I am the best fighter in my bracket, but I know I'm good. I want to use my skills to help somebody, not to provide entertainment."  
  
Raeshen put his unarmed hand on his friends shoulder. Looking him in the eyes, he said, "You do help others, Lothæsorun. You provide the incentive for others to keep training. And you always spar with anybody needing a partner, helping them improve. Not an honest elf in Foreen would deny that you are the best fighter in your bracket, so stop being so damn modest."  
  
Heaving a great sigh, Lothæsorun returned his gaze from the heavens to his friend. "I don't know, maybe I've just been tired lately. It's almost sunset, so I'm going to go home."  
  
"That's a good idea," said Raeshen, "Get some extra sleep tonight."  
  
"Will do."  
  
- - - - -  
  
The gargantuan dragon stared at the elf. The slim biped looked like a child's plaything next to the immense form of the dragon. The sunlight bouncing off the bronze-tinged scales forced the Elven female to shield her eyes. It had to be a female, he couldn't imagine a male elf with the flowing auburn hair. But where had he seen her before?  
  
The giant bronze dragon passed its massive clawed hand over the elf, blocking her from his view. When the dragon's hand moved away, the elf was gone. The magnificent creature stood on its hind legs, rising to an unbelievable height.  
  
Then the dragon sighed. From its maw pulsed a cloud of light, blinding his vision. When the light faded, the dragon was gone. In its place stood a male elf. A male elf that he had seen at Rilistivætha River. An elf that he knew very well . . .  
  
- - - - -  
  
"I was dreaming again last night, Taneisen," said Lothæsorun as he sparred with his mentor.  
  
"How long have you been having these dreams?" said Taneisen as he returned strikes against his student. Just because he had lived for over five centuries did in no way imply that the old elf's reflexes were slow. In fact, Lothæsorun had to focus to keep up. The young warrior had not answered the question, so the elder asked again, "How long, Lothæsorun?"  
  
"Since my 100th birthday," replied Lothæsorun coolly.  
  
"That was over 30 years ago! Why haven't you said anything until recently if your dreams have been bothering you this long?" inquired Taneisen.  
  
"Because they were never this consistent. Or vivid. I'm starting to see details in them. I begin to wonder if they are trying to tell me something."  
  
"Who know," said Taneisen as he began a flurry of blows against Lothæsorun's defenses, "But either way, you need to stay focused!" Just as he finished speaking, the master's spar blade slipped through his student's defenses and struck him on the side of his thigh.  
  
Lothæsorun dropped to the earthen floor, both because of the stinging pain inflicted by the blow (most Elven spar blades are made from wood that has aged so much as to be almost as hard as rock) as much as from his anger toward himself for not paying attention. In a rage, Lothæsorun howled in anger. The moment Lothæsorun felt the heat rising in the back of his throat, he shut his mouth, but it was for naught. In the instant it was open, a bolt of lightning shot from his maw and struck the massive oak fifty yards in front of him. The dumb-struck elf blinked his eyes; the trunk of the great oak, now charred black and smoldering. Taneisen stood petrified, his jaw slack with terror and surprise. Lothæsorun sat back on his haunches, staring at the blackened tree, his eyes filled with horror.  
  
"Lothæsorun," whispered Taneisen with both fear and curiosity in his voice, "How did you do that?"  
  
"I don't know," whispered Lothæsorun. "But I fear this shall be my last day in Foreen."  
  
"Aye, lad," said Taneisen. "Aye. I shall help you prepare your leave. And I give you my word," he said as he turned to face his pupil, "That I shan't tell a soul of this the rest of my days."  
  
"Thank you, old friend," smiled Lothæsorun mournfully.  
  
- - - - -  
  
Lothæsorun looked around his small abode. This morning it was vibrant, full, almost having a life unto itself; now it seemed quite barren and dead. The books had been locked away in a chest. His lantern and oil were packed in the small sack he was taking with him, along with some blankets and two skins filled with drink. He hoped he could reach the city of Polmas before they ran out. There he could hire himself out as a mercenary or find a trade to work until he found some answers. His hand-crafted bow was slung over his shoulder, his quiver on his back with only a few dozen arrows. The whittling knife he had used to carve it was in a small sheath aside his thigh, his only source of martial defense.  
  
Sadness at leaving the only home he had ever known, he turned to leave. Just as he was outside the door, he paused. Bowing his head, he placed his right hand on top of his left, held them parallel to the ground, and said a short prayer. Lothæsorun lifted his head, and descended the great tree that had been his home these many years. He began his walk to the edge of town.  
  
- - - - -  
  
Lothæsorun looked over the city of Foreen. Standing at the limits of the Elves' expansion in this part Virian Forest. He had never seen the city often at this time of night, but now he saw it, and thought it remarkably beautiful. Various trees were lit by the small personal lanterns burning within. The large buildings on the forest floor had their magical lamps aglow, casting soft green spheres of light into the night. The crisp night air was filled with the voices of Elven minstrels and their instruments, singing of days long gone, of star-crossed lovers, and of forgotten heroes. Looking at the majestic tranquillity of the only home he had known, in all its beauty, and knowing that he might never look upon it again, brought a tear to his eye.  
  
Lothæsorun wiped the tear away, and turned to begin the journey to Polmas. As he started down the dirt path, a voice from behind a tree called to him.  
  
"Lothæsorun."  
  
"Who is it?" Lothæsorun asked, curious to know who was observing his departure. His old friend and mentor stepped onto the path, a sword strapped to his back. Lothæsorun could only see the hilt and pommel, but he knew it most definitely was not of Elven make.  
  
"Before you leave, I have something I must do." Lothæsorun was about to speak, but Taneisen held up his hand for silence.  
  
"I must continue with you what my mentor continued with me." Taneisen slowly drew the weapon from its sheath, and performed a short display of his superior skill with a sword. He then unslung the sheath from across his back, and held the blade and its cover outstretched to his student.  
  
"This blade was forged by the Dwarven smith Borain. Tempered in the flames of Mount Ærun, it has seen many battles. Supposedly, it has some magical quality to it, but the knowledge to use it has been lost to the Elves. I have faith that you will one day learn how to unleash that power, but until then, it shall be a fine sword for your protection."  
  
Lothæsorun bowed in honor, and accepted the sword.  
  
"And you'll want this," said Taneisen as he handed his former student a whetstone. "Keep it sharp."  
  
Lothæsorun accepted the gifts with as much dignity and pride as he could muster. The two elves said their good-byes in silence, reading the words in their eyes. Lothæsorun then bowed again to his former master, and began the long walk to Polmas. 


	3. Chapter II: Departure from Virian

Departure From Virian  
  
The great forest of Virian that surrounded Foreen had existed before any recorded history on Gaeth, including those of the Dwarves and the Elves. The great trees had trunks as massive as the limbs of the great wyrms of old, many arm spans around and dense enough to deflect any normal blade; one tree alone had the potential to provide enough lumber for a small human family for a whole season. When the Elves came into being, they became the more civilized protectors of the forest. Civilized, but not the only defenses the forest had. Interspersed among the common trees lived the wise and noble Treants. The forest itself came alive with the wild creatures to defend their home if it was in danger. The streams that flowed through Virian provided nourishment to the forest and all its inhabitants, before joining the Rilistivætha River and going out to sea.  
  
Even now Lothæsorun walked on paths that had been here for centuries. They were created during the Orc Wars to transport the Elven wounded to safety. The Elves proved to the Forest through that war that they had a right to make their home in the forest. For it was in those wars that they had succeeded where the Forest had failed; they had beaten back the Orc tribes on their quest to destroy the forest; they had saved Virian. Now the Elves lived in relative harmony with the forest; the Elves took only what they needed, never over-hunting, and their cities did little to disrupt the forest's natural balance; in return, the Forest never purposefully sent its servants to attack the Elves.  
  
Lothæsorun loved the forest. Throughout his life and the eons of its existence, the Forest had changed little. Quite the opposite of himself. In less than a year after his hundredth birthday he had become some very un- Elvish, and again only yesterday, he had become an abomination among Elven society. What had caused that outburst of electricity? Was it because he lost his temper, or was it just another change to his being that he couldn't explain?  
  
"I wish I knew," Lothæsorun said to himself, "I wish I knew what was happening to me."  
  
He plodded along the path, wishing he had someone to talk to. Lothæsorun had no qualms about being alone, but it was almost four days' unceasing march just to reach the edge of Virian Forest from Foreen, then it was many more to reach Polmas. Oh, for a good conversation! Or some meat. He had left Foreen shortly after sundown last night, and hadn't stopped for food. Now his insides twisted at the thought of some succulent meat, lightly roasted, with some greens and good wine.  
  
Alas, of the two skins he carried, only one had wine, and it had not yet aged to the degree of Elven taste (which is aged far longer than to the taste of Humans). The other contained water from Rilistivætha, for he knew that the forest had plenty of streams running through it, but he did not know of any outside of the forest. If he had known that game in the forest was going to be so scarce, he would have brought some vittles to last at least the few days he knew he would be in the forest. Sometimes the uninformed get the short end of the stick indeed.  
  
As Lothæsorun got further away from Foreen, he noticed that it became harder to continue his journey. Branches and undergrowth blocked his vision, and tree roots sought to steal his footing. The undergrowth bit at his shins, slowly eating away at his deerskin leggings.  
  
As the hours went by, Lothæsorun saw less and less sunlight. To occupy himself, Lothæsorun began thinking. He theorized that the Elves had developed their superior vision in low-light conditions during the Orc Wars. He figured that in the dense areas it could appear to be night all day long, so Elven troops' eyes would need to adjust if they were to defend themselves.  
  
Lothæsorun was getting tired. And all that thinking didn't help. Now his head hurt. He'd been walking since before dawn, not stopping to rest or to eat. Now he could hear that night was upon him. Choirs of insects turned their instruments in preparation for the night's concert. Here and there owls voiced their personal opinions of the Forest's musicians.  
  
"I should find some shelter for the night," Lothæsorun thought to himself.  
  
As he looked around, he saw that there was nothing suitable for protection. The path was surrounded with trees, vines, and undergrowth, but showed nothing for shrubbery. While he knew that the Forest wouldn't order an attack on him, he didn't want to risk being found by a hunger bear or becoming food for a pack of wolves. Nothing on the ground would provide him enough cover to ease his nerves. Letting out a sigh, he continued walking.  
  
Lothæsorun's thoughts turned back to Foreen. He smiled as he pictured his tree, the sounds of the Elven bards floating through the air . . . Of course! The trees! Why hadn't he thought of the trees? He stopped in his tracks and scanned the trees above him. There was a beautiful Virian tree that was perfect. These trees could be found nowhere else on Gaeth, and the way the branches grew a person would think that they were made for supporting the buildings of the gods, if not the Heavens themselves.  
  
Not hesitating another moment, he jumped for the lowest branches, and climbed up to a lovely "u" the branches formed. Carefully securing his gear to a nearby branch, he slumped down and shut his eyes.  
  
- - - - -  
  
The sound of birds chirping woke Lothæsorun from his slumber. He was surrounded by the leafy green of the Virian tree that covered him like a warm blanket. Brushing away the branches and fallen leaves, he looked to the ground. Already the Forest had covered his tracks from yesterday. Reaching for his gear on the nearby bow, a familiar nagging pain clutched his stomach: hunger. He hadn't eaten in two days, and the gnawing of his abdomen grew by the hour. Shiel-Nan hadn't provided him with any food the day before, perhaps she would be kind today.  
  
Doing his best to ignore the growls and snarls of hunger, Lothæsorun dropped to the ground and continued onward. The Forest had a habit of being rather quiet, so Lothæsorun sang songs he learned as a boy. He sang of how Corthidian Isthærian created the Elves from his own life essence, and taught them magic, archery, and swordplay. He sang of Fhoingar and his brother Verik, who fought the War of Thieves, of how they ascended to godhood, and became Gaeth's two moons.  
  
So absorbed was he in singing that Lothæsorun never saw the tree root that was in front of him. Lothæsorun was just finishing the last verse about the Moon Brothers when he tripped on the root and fell flat on his face. Cursing, he got up and started brushing himself off. He stopped. Not a hundred yards from where he stood a doe was grazing.  
  
"At last!" Lothæsorun thought, "Some food!"  
  
Saying a quick prayer of thanks to Shiel-Nan, Lothæsorun ducked behind a nearby tree. Peering over the side, he could see that the doe was still there. Nocking an arrow in his bow, Lothæsorun took aim at the herbivore. Lothæsorun let fly with the arrow. It fell short, landing in a small bush. The doe started, and looked around, now sensing the danger. Quickly, Lothæsorun nocked a second arrow and let it fly. This arrow found its mark in the creature's left breast. The animal started to run, but only succeeded in going another hundred feet before Lothæsorun dropped it with a third arrow.  
  
Walking over to his kill, Lothæsorun pulled out his whittling knife and began to dress the beast. He wrapped the meat in the skin, but used some of the hide to make quick repairs to his leggings. Lothæsorun feasted on a leg on the spot, so strong was the hunger in his loins. After taking care of the deer, he slung his sack over his shoulder, now heavier for all the meat, and continued on.  
  
The rest of the day he walked, humming when the silence grew too uncomfortable. That night he made a small fire and enjoyed the first opportunity he had since leaving home for a meal. After supper, he found another suitable tree for the night, and he slept better than he had in the past thirty years in Foreen.  
  
- - - - -  
  
The third day had proved as uneventful as the first two. Strangely uneventful, as even the native creatures of Virian had been uncharacteristically quiet, and none save the birds and smaller creatures had made their presence known to Lothæsorun. He wondered if something might be happening to the Forest, for the very atmosphere seemed to grow darker and more foreboding as his journey led him further from Foreen.  
  
- - - - -  
  
Lothæsorun woke with a start. It was still night, or at best early morning. What had woken him? A chill wind blew through the treetops, causing a shiver down his spine. From below, he could hear branches snapping and underbrush being laid low. Peering through the branches, Lothæsorun could make out a dozen muscular humanoids. They appeared to be clearing a path for others. One was almost a head taller than the rest. Barking orders at the others, Lothæsorun knew what he saw. Orcs! But what were Orcs doing in Virian? And why hadn't the Forest sent creatures to repel these invaders? Questions flooded his mind, but he knew one thing for certain: he had to move. One does not confront a group of Orcs alone. He had to move fast because dawn was not far away, and the sunlight would make it harder to hide his movements.  
  
Lothæsorun grabbed his gear and slowly made his way down the tree. He quietly circled around the group, always moving to his right. When he was a distance past the small band, he stopped. Looking around, he saw that those Orcs appeared to be in the forest alone! As he could still see the small band, he decided he should at least make them have a little fear of the Forest.  
  
Lothæsorun unslung his longbow and readied an arrow. The apparent leader of the small group was now out of sight, but he could still fire at one of the others. Releasing the arrow, he watching as it flew to its target and struck home beneath the creature's left shoulder blade, puncturing it's heart. Roars came up from the others as their comrade fell to the forest floor. Smiling to himself, Lothæsorun turned around and resumed walking. Even though dawn was still a good three hours away, he could see that only another seven miles or so and he was out of Virian. 


End file.
